Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 11] - Give All To Love Page 4

  Sir William fumed his way to the French doors, flung one open, marched onto the terrace, then swung about, to roar, "It's that damned rabble-rousing Redmond has caused you to turn against your own class! That radical friend of yours spouts the same sort of jiggery-pokery nonsense in the House of Lords as do you in Gloucestershire!"

  "Thank you." Devenish limped over to bow derisively. "Mitchell Redmond is a very good friend of mine, and one of the finest gentlemen I know. And furthermore, Little," he went on, raising his voice as Sir William stamped down the steps to where a stableboy walked his mount up and down the rear drive-path, "if you and your kind had one jot of humanity in your collectively stony hearts, you'd show a little compassion for those less fortunate than your over-fed, pampered selves."

  Inarticulate with wrath, his victim flung himself into the saddle and charged off at the gallop.

  Chuckling, Devenish turned about and made his way to his study. The house seemed very quiet and the chill hall echoed emptiness. Josie should have written days ago. 'Wretched chit,' he thought. 'She is punishing me because she found me with Yolande.' But that, of course, was ridiculous. Josie would be pleased if he married again. Not that he could marry Yolande, even if he wished to. Which he didn't.

  His study was cold, yesterday's ashes were still in the grate, and the wastebasket had not been emptied. He grumbled his way to the windows and threw the half-closed velvet curtains wide open to let in the pale autumn sunlight. Turning, he limped to the sullied fireplace and shook one finger at the portrait that hung above it. "You see what happens when you don't come home, Miss Josephine Storm. Only look at this mess! Your fault, ma'am. All your fault!"

  The artist who had painted Josie two years earlier, when her guardian had judged her to be fourteen, had captured all her bright, eager optimism, and Devenish was silent for a moment, gazing smilingly up at that youthful face. Her features had changed so gradually, he'd not at first noticed that his waif was growing up. Growing to be beautiful. She didn't know she was beautiful, and oddly enough, some dense persons did not at first see her beauty. But in some miraculous fashion, her eyes, always bright, had become large and brilliant. Her mouth had softened and was more sweetly curved, her chin a trifle more rounded. And her dainty body— He cut off that train of thought quickly. It was as well to envision her a child, still. A gawky, perplexing, tender, loving, caring— "Hum!" he muttered, and said, scowling up at her, "If you had not surrounded me with oddities and misfits, madam, I might not now be in such sorry case. Behold my desk! Well, at least you're not here to tidy it so that I cannot find any—"

  "Lordy, lordy, lor'," quoth a husky, breathless voice. "What a bloomin' mess 'tis, Mist' Dev'nish. What a bloomin' mess."

  "Mrs. Robinson," he said uneasily, eyeing the bundled untidiness that was his housekeeper, and stepping over the ginger cat that wandered in, yawning.

  "Thassme," wheezed Mrs. Robinson, beating an erratic path to the bell pull and tugging it energetically. "Get th' fireboy here, Mist' Dev'nish. Dunno what M's Josie'd say 'fshe could see this mess. Dunno, I'm sure. Shoulda rung, Mist' Dev'nish. Shoulda rung. You just sit y'sel' down, there. Just sit y'sel' down, an'—"

  She advanced upon Devenish who, holding his breath, retreated to his desk chair and sat down abruptly. "Mrs. Robinson," he began firmly, "have you been at—"

  His unfinished question became redundant as his housekeeper bent to pat him fondly on the shoulder and wheeze into his face that she had indeed been hard at work, but he wasn't to mind, like the good kind soul he was. She turned to busy herself at the desk, and Devenish blinked, waved away the fumes of gin, and drew a deep breath.

  "Hey!" he cried belatedly. "What are you about?"

  She blinked bleary, faded blue eyes at him. "Changin' y'r flowersh, sir. These be—"

  "They're perfectly fine!"

  "No, they're not. They're dead, sir. Been dead nigh a week. M's Josie put 'em there jus' 'fore—"

  "Well, yes. But—er…" He watched glumly as the cherished and brittle stalks were swept into the wastepaper basket. From a bucket on the floor, Mrs. Robinson produced a glorious, fresh, vibrant bunch of chrysanthemums, which she proceeded to stuff into the vase from which the dead roses had been so ruthlessly ejected. "Cannot think how this water stays s'fresh," she muttered, knowing perfectly well why it had done so.

  Devenish flushed scarlet and bent over his papers.

  "Nor I can't think what's 'come o' that dratted fireboy," she went on, slanting an amused glance at her employer's fair head. She gathered her sagging shawl about her shoulders, turned, and reeled dizzily.

  Devenish grabbed her arm. "Are you all right?"

  She looked down at him. She was a victim of cruel circumstance: a husband who had fallen at the Battle of Vitoria, two small children who had died of measles and malnutrition, and the despair that had made her into a drunkard. Grief and starvation had aged her far beyond her forty years. Her hair was greying, her eyes rheumy, and the flush of alcohol painted her lined cheeks. But the smile that now lit her face was tenderness personified. She touched Devenish's supporting hand timidly. "I'm sorry, sir," she sighed. "I didn't mean… but then, I don't never mean…"

  He tightened his grip. "I know. You're doing much better, Mrs. R. I shouldn't wonder, in fact, if it was you Squire Little came over to see this morning, you rascal!"

  She giggled tremulously and moved off.

  "How about some lunch for the lord of the manor?" Devenish called.

  "Right 'way, sir," she croaked, and beat a wavering retreat.

  Sir William's acid remarks had reminded Devenish that he'd failed to reply to Mitchell Redmond's last letter. Despite the fact that Josie had not tidied his desk, he was quite unable to find Mitchell's communique and gave up the search when a footman brought in the day's correspondence. Leafing quickly through it, he saw nothing inscribed in the neat copperplate hand he had hoped to find. He glanced up. The footman had not departed, and grinned at him. His wig was lopsided, and he looked fondly conspiratorial. This large chap, Devenish recalled, was the reformed pickpocket. Yearning for a stuffy, conservative footman who regarded him with bored disinterest, or even a modicum of dislike, he demanded, "Is this the lot, Cornish?"

  "Ar," said the footman, and pointed out helpfully, "Ain't nothing from Miss Josie."

  "So I see," said Devenish, fixing him with a hard stare.

  "Never mind, guv. She'll be back in a day or three." Apparently oblivious to the frown in his employer's eyes, he added, "You got one there from Lord Bolster."

  "Perhaps," Devenish remarked with icy hauteur, "you can inform me of its contents."

  "Love-a-duck! Not me, mate. I mean—guv."

  "Sir," said Devenish sternly.

  "Cor! I thought it was lord!"

  "I mean, blast your eyes, that you should call me 'sir'!"

  "Oh. All right, cock. Keep fergettin', don't I? Anythink you says. 'Cept reading of yer letter. Can't. Read 'is lordship's writin', I mean. Bloody awful. Worse'n yours, Sir Guv."

  Devenish's incensed glare was countered by a grin that spread to reveal the lack of one front tooth. Devenish tried to keep his countenance, but the ludicrous aspect of it was too much for his blithe spirit, and he laughed helplessly.

  The footman laughed with him in a high-pitched scream.

  Devenish wiped his eyes, and said between chuckles, "Get out of here… you damned… hedgebird."

  "That's better, sir—mate," replied the footman, and took himself off to advise his colleagues in the servants' hall that "The Guvnor" was proper gut-foundered 'cause Me Lady Elf wasn't back yet.

  Devenish, meanwhile, had turned his attention to the missive from Lord Jeremy Bolster. Six years ago, he and Jeremy had been members of the small and gallant band that had stood alone between England and the murderous and terrifyingly efficient plotting of Monsieur Claude Sanguinet. They were, besides, friends of long standing, and Devenish had the deepest affection for Bolster. The young peer was a brave man and a loyal frie
nd. He had been a splendid soldier, was a devoted husband and father—and an atrocious penman, even as the footman had impertinently noted. Squinting at the convulsed and misspelled phrases, Devenish groaned and clutched his hair.

  "Nothing wrong, I hope, sir?"

  The aged man now reeling into the room was Simeon Wolfe, tiny, frail, uncertain as to gait, vision, and hearing, and on the far side of seventy. He should have been retired years since, but had pleaded that he had nowhere to go, no one to go to, and no idea of what to do with himself, was he turned off. Devenish had attempted to point out that he would have an adequate pension, plus a comfortable cottage on the grounds, and could putter about the garden to his heart's content if he so desired. Josie, however, had taken up the cudgels in behalf of a retainer Devenish had scarcely met until he'd removed to Devencourt. The poor old fellow, she'd argued fiercely, had given his whole life to the service of the Devenishes (a questionable statement at best) and so long as she had breath to draw, he would not be cast off like an old shoe. And so Wolfe stayed, and along with the well-intentioned, if back-sliding, housekeeper, he repaid Devenish for his continued employment with a doglike devotion that petrified his much-tried master.

  Recognizing the note of pathos in the old man's cracked tones, Devenish lost no time in explaining that he was simply finding it difficult to decipher my lord Bolster's handwriting, and with one fascinated eye on the tilting luncheon tray, requested that it be set on the table before the windows.

  With a knowing smile, Wolfe shook his head and set off between a hop and a stagger, the ale that had been poured with a too generous hand splashing liberally onto the floor.

  Devenish shuddered and covered his eyes, waiting for the crash.

  "Cheer up sir," piped the old man kindly. "Miss Josie will be home soon. Don't you worry so."

  "I am not worrying!" snarled Devenish, standing. And then, seeing the stricken look on the wrinkled old face, said, repentant, "But—er, we all miss her, don't we?"

  "That we do, sir," said Wolfe, tugging ineffectually at the chair. "Our little sunbeam goes away, and this old house is like a tomb."

  A chill touched Devenish. 'Like a tomb…' "Nonsense," he said, starting to the relief of his struggling minion. "At all events, she'll be home before you can say—" He stepped in a puddle of ale, covered a good distance in record time, and swore blisteringly.

  "No hurry, sir," said Wolfe with a kindly smile. "Easy does it."

  Devenish gritted his teeth, pulled back the chair, straightened the tilting butler, and remarked that whenever someone had the time, they might be so kind as to send in the fireboy.

  Wolfe nodded and lurched off. Holding his breath, Devenish eased himself into the chair.

  "Hurt yourself, didn't you, sir?" observed Wolfe from the door. "Shouldn't be capering about at your funny tricks just for my sake. Not so young as you used to be, you know."

  Devenish directed a seething glare at his plate and said nothing. When the door had closed behind his devoted retainer, he allowed his frustration full rein for several scalding seconds and then, shivering, picked up a stale ham sandwich.

  The fireboy did not come, but another of Devenish's encumbrances put in an appearance. He was apprised of this new arrival as he again struggled with Jeremy Bolster's bewildering letter. The snuffling slurps could not be mistaken. Flinging around in his chair, he gave an irked shout.

  "Damn you, Lady Godiva! Get away!"

  The encumbrance raised injured eyes and quivered her ale-wet snout at him.

  "You know very well what I said," he snarled. "Out!"

  By way of bribery, Lady Godiva wrinkled her forty pink pounds and her curly tail jerked. She then resumed the business of cleaning up.

  "You blasted pig!" quoth Devenish with perfect accuracy. He sprang from the chair, grabbed his thigh, and sat down again with considerably less verve.

  Lady Godiva, who was fond of him, trotted over to peer up into his face, then sat down and rested her snout on his knee.

  "Drunken… sot," Devenish said unevenly, pulling one of her ears.

  Not one to take offence, she snorted.

  "Not as young as I used to be, indeed! One might think I was ninety-three, rather than thirty-three!"

  Lady Godiva wriggled in her most beguiling fashion. Absently, he gave her a piece of the musty ham sandwich, then exclaimed, "Egad, ma'am, my apologies! It might be a friend."

  The pig was apparently cannibalistic and waited hopefully for the next offering.

  "Let that be a lesson to you," said Devenish, having fortified himself with some of the warm ale. "Never adopt a chit. However appealing. Before you can turn around, they grow up and make you feel a dashed Methuselah!"

  Edging closer, Lady Godiva voiced a coy grunt.

  "Had you been what you should have been," he advised, "I'd have a dog keeping me company in my senile solitude. Since you had the poor taste to be born a pig, you'll get no more of my lunch, miss! Off with you!"

  He finished his unappetizing repast, decided that Bolster's letter must wait until Josie returned to decipher it for him, and ordered up his rambunctious stallion, Santana.

  Chapter 3

  Devenish's first encounter with the late and unlamented Sanguinet had been in the ruthless Frenchman's magnificent chateau in Dinan. It had been what Devenish described in later years as "a jolly good adventure," but for a time the outcome had been in doubt, and when he escaped he had taken with him a crossbow bolt that had transfixed his right thigh. The bolt was cast of steel and so cunningly contrived that his friends had been obliged to remove it with the aid of a hacksaw. A healthy young man, he had recovered rapidly, but he was left with a permanent limp and occasional bouts of discomfort that he shrugged off as being "a trifle annoying." The fact that he limped galled him far more than even his closest friends guessed, but on horseback he was in his element. He had always been a splendid rider, and if anything, his skill had improved with the years. The rougher the going, the more he enjoyed it, and so long as he was not in the saddle for a protracted period, he suffered no ill effects.

  Santana was a big black stallion with a Roman nose, a deep barrel, straight powerful legs, and an uncertain temperament that bedevilled the grooms. With Devenish, he was docility itself, but woe betide any stranger who attempted to ride him.

  On this sunny afternoon, the air carried a chill warning of approaching winter. The clouds were shredding across the pale skies, and the tops of the trees were tossing to a strong wind.

  Devenish gave Santana his head, and the big black thundered northwestward across the meadows, skirting the Home Wood, moving with his powerful, ground-covering stride that faltered not in the slightest when they came into the steeper slopes of the Cotswolds. Devenish slowed the horse, and Santana, rebelling, fought for his head again, but was subdued by the firm hand and voice that were unlike the hand and voice of any other man who had ever ridden—or had attempted to ride—him. This was the one human who must never be disobeyed or displeased. And so they came to the top of the steep rise in more sedate style. Devenish drew his mount to a halt and gazed out across the wide panorama while Santana snorted and pawed at the earth and rolled his fierce eyes, just to let the master know he had not yet begun to run.

  It was very clear this afternoon. Off to the left the River Severn made its way southwest toward the Bristol Channel. Far off, Devenish could see the dark mass of the Forest of Dean. Eastward, roll upon roll, rose the green might of the Cotswolds. He was at the edge of his preserves now, and he turned Santana about, looking back to where, far below, Devencourt nestled in its valley. Even from this distance the beauty of the Elizabethan mansion was marked, and he leaned forward, one hand on the pommel, surveying his birthright.

  Devencourt was built in the shape of a squared U. The central block and oldest part of the structure rose to three storeys, with half-timbered walls and latticed windows, all of which leaned a little, since the old building had settled during the long march of the years and was
now markedly out of plumb. Both two-storey wings had been added at a later date, but faithfully adhered to the earlier architectural style. A great house it was, shielded by massive old oaks, set amid emerald lawns, its size and majesty softened by the graceful gardens that surrounded it. A sight to bring joy to the heart of any owner, one might suppose. Yet Devenish's eyes were bleak, his handsome features brooding. As a little boy, Devencourt had seemed to him a monstrous, living thing, reaching out to hug him to itself and keep him captive and alone amidst the tragic memories of bygone years. Even today, he feared it, dogged by a shadow of some inescapable evil.

  He set his jaw, impatient with such gloomy forebodings. He'd been happy here, hadn't he? He'd had seven years of busy, full days. Seven years of laughter and contentment. The laughter of a little girl, whose endless inventiveness had been a never-failing source of wonder and delight. It was Josie who had kept at him until the new flower beds were installed. It was at her urging that he had thrown the old place open for Public Days each August, and it was because of her cheerful spreading of the word that many people had essayed the long and potholed road that wound through the hills to serve both his property and that of Sir William Little. Next, she had badgered him into taking her to Town to choose new furnishings for the main block, which had been largely neglected and unused for the past century or so. He smiled faintly as he recalled the friends she had beguiled into visiting them as she grew older. His complaints that his house fairly shook to schoolgirl squeals and chatter had been cheerfully ignored, and in some mysterious fashion he had become a part of their games. Charades and spillikins and Fish; picnics, boat parties, musicales… and as the merry years slipped away, charity bazaars and fetes, fund-raising activities at the church, visitations of the sick, inspections of his tenants and their properties, judging at horse shows and fairs. Activities he would never have chosen to embrace, but into which he had been swept by the enthusiasm and manoeuvrings of his vivacious little ward.